Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles (25 page)

The force of the explosion knocked everyone off their feet—including Mikhail and Daphne. He lurched upright. Panic cut through him when he saw her lying on the bottom of the jolly boat. He’d never run faster as he sped to her. Carefully, he picked her up.

She blinked, slightly dazed. He scowled when he saw the thin trickle of blood running down from her forehead.

“Goddamn it, you’re hurt.”

She touched her fingertips to the wound. “Can’t even feel it. The gate …”

They both turned to see that the gate had been knocked down, and Khalida and her warriors now flooded the interior of the compound. The guards turned their attention to this threat, and everywhere was the ring of steel against steel and the whine of gunfire. On horseback, scimitar in hand, Khalida herself looked like the incarnation of war, slashing mercilessly at anyone who dared approach her. She shouted encouragement at her warriors, who yelled back their willingness to fight.

There was still no sign of al-Rahim, but Mikhail had no doubt the warlord would make an appearance soon.

Sounds of gunfire thundered overhead—sounds he recognized. Looking up, Mikhail saw the
Bielyi Voron
engaged in heavy combat with the two Man O’ War ships. The French airship was smaller than Mikhail’s, but Olevski’s
Chyornyi Golub
was the same class, with the same number of guns. An even match—had they been fighting only each other. Yet the
Bielyi Voron
had not one but two opponents. Leaving Mikhail and Daphne very little time to find and free her parents before they had to get back to the ship.

Moving deeper into the compound, with the fight all around them, they searched for her mother and father.

Al-Zaman suddenly stumbled out from the swirling chaos. Seeing them, the emissary’s face twisted with rage.

“Where are my parents?” Daphne demanded.

Al-Zaman sneered. “It does not matter.”

Mikhail took a threatening step forward. “Tell me where they are.”

The emissary attempted a look of defiance, but gave himself away when his gaze flicked toward the main building.

Both Mikhail and Daphne ran toward the palace.

“Your haste is useless,” al-Zaman shouted after them. “Their throats will be already cut by the time you reach them.”

Neither Mikhail nor Daphne responded. They pushed their way through the battle as it swept deeper and deeper into the compound. Any men who got in his way were knocked aside like dolls. He breached the interior of the main building. It was only after he ran through a courtyard and then down several corridors that he realized Daphne was no longer with him. Somewhere along the way, she’d disappeared.

T
HE CONFUSION HAD
spread into the main building, and she fought to keep with Mikhail as servants and others fled. It was like swimming upstream, the current of humanity pushing against her.

When the first burst of panicked people ebbed, she found herself lost in a maze of hallways. Mikhail was nowhere to be found.

Daphne hadn’t taken more than a handful of steps before al-Zaman blocked her path. The veneer of affability he’d worn in Medinat al-Kadib had crumbled away, revealing the rot of hatred beneath. He pointed a revolver at her, and she realized that her own gun had been knocked out of her hand when she’d been thrown by the explosion.
Hell.

She could try to call to Mikhail for help, but that might delay him from reaching her parents in time. No, she had to face al-Zaman on her own.

Talking the emissary out of shooting her was impossible. Hatred blazed in his eyes. She had to act—quickly.

Strong and fast
, she reminded herself. Any missteps meant her death.

With her left hand, she grabbed the wrist of his gun hand. At the same time, she used her other hand to grip the barrel of the gun and push it back toward him. The revolver now faced al-Zaman, his wrist completely twisted, and he grimaced in pain and fury. She covered his trigger finger with her own.

They struggled for the gun. She prayed he would be smart and simply let go, but he refused. Her heels slid on the floor, fighting for balance. She couldn’t let him regain control of the revolver.

Suddenly, there was a muffled bang. Al-Zaman’s eyes went wide. Color drained from his face, and his hand slackened on the gun. He stumbled backward. Fell. Daphne stood with the revolver in her hand, gazing down at him as he sprawled on the ground. A red stain spread across his chest. He gaped up at her. Then his eyes turned glassy and his head lolled to the side.

She stared at the weapon in her hand. A brief wave of nausea rolled over her. She’d actually killed someone. Looked him in the eyes and pulled the trigger, then watched as he died.
God.

The sickness passed quickly. This wasn’t just combat, but a war. For her life, for her parents’ lives. For Mikhail.

Mikhail.
She raced down a corridor in search of him, without giving al-Zaman another thought.

The further she got into the building, the more she had quick impressions of additional guards running here and there, many fighting with Khalida’s warriors. Servants hid beneath tables and behind silken wall hangings. The palace itself looked sumptuous, covered in mosaics and filled with potted palms, but she barely noted any of this. She needed to find Mikhail, and her parents.

As she hurried down another corridor, she just caught sight of him turning a corner, fighting deeper into the building. She sped after him. Even farther ahead were two giant guards, heading toward the wing of the palace where her parents must be kept. They held massive scimitars. These had to be the men al-Zaman had sent to kill her mother and father.

The guards reached a door at the end of a corridor, where two more men stood sentry, but before they could open it, Mikhail launched himself at them. He threw one of the guards against a wall. The man slammed into the tile-covered surface, then slumped to the ground. He struggled to rise, but Mikhail planted a fist in the guard’s face. The man’s head snapped back and he was instantly unconscious.

The second guard finished entering the combination into the lock on the door. Before Mikhail could grab him, Daphne aimed al-Zaman’s gun and fired. The guard howled, clutching at his wounded shoulder. His yowls of pain stopped, however, when Mikhail punched him into insensibility.

He fought against the two remaining sentries, knocking their drawn swords from their hands. Spinning, he planted a kick right in the middle of a sentry’s chest. Gasping for air, the man flew backward. He also slammed into a wall, then fell to the ground, dazed. The other sentry stared at Mikhail for a moment before running off with a panicked yelp.

Daphne dashed up to Mikhail, who was standing beside the door. He pushed it open, and they both stepped into the chamber.

She recognized the room from the cinemagraph, but her gaze moved quickly past the details of the chamber. Where were her parents? The chamber seemed empty. Was this another of al-Zaman’s cruel tricks?

“Mama?” she called. “Papa?”

Figures darted out from behind a wall hanging, straight at her. Mikhail instantly took a defensive posture, ready to unleash an attack. She hadn’t words to tell him it was all right. Instead, the two figures embraced her, and he dropped his fists.

“Daphne!” her mother cried.

“My God,” her father choked, “it’s really you? Here?”

She couldn’t speak. Instead, she clutched her parents close as they hugged her back. Tears leapt into her eyes. They seemed a little thinner, but everything else about them was familiar, from her father’s white-and-ginger beard to the little smile creases bracketing her mother’s mouth. Safe. They were safe.

From the corner of her eye, she saw her parents’ assistants come out from their places of hiding.

“You shouldn’t have come,” her father said gruffly, pulling back a little. “Too dangerous.”

“I couldn’t leave you here, Papa.” Daphne’s tight throat made talking difficult. “And I had some assistance.”

She glanced at Mikhail, and caught, very briefly, a look of bittersweet longing on his face as she held tight to her parents. The expression disappeared quickly, replaced by the sangfroid of a battle-hardened warrior.

Her father’s gingery eyebrows climbed up toward his forehead, and her mother made a small, shocked sound. Daphne almost laughed. She’d forgotten how his extraordinary appearance could startle people.

“Mama, Papa, this is Captain Mikhail Mikhailovich Denisov. Mikhail, this is Edgar and Adelaide Carlisle.” She felt a little ridiculous, making formal introductions in the middle of this madness, but she
was
English.

Both her parents mumbled stunned greetings as Mikhail tipped his head. Her mother’s gaze strayed to the glimpse of telumium beneath Mikhail’s waistcoat. “A Man O’ War? I know our captivity has kept us a little out of current events, but are the Russians now our allies?”

Her father stared at Mikhail’s outrageous hair, the rings in his ears, and his elaborately adorned and modified coat. “I think Captain Denisov is a rogue, my dear.”

“I’m only allied with your daughter, Mrs. Carlisle,” Mikhail answered.

“Oh …” her mother murmured, looking even more astonished. She glanced at Daphne with concern. “Is that … wise?”

Despite her joy at being reunited with her parents, she felt immediately indignant on Mikhail’s behalf. “He’s the reason why we’re here now, freeing you.”

“I’m sure it’s a long and fascinating tale.” Her father winced as the building shook from the sounds of gunfire and explosions. “Perhaps you can recount it later. Much later.”

Mikhail was all business. “Everyone to the jolly boat. Now.” He ushered everybody out of the chamber, including her parents. Their steps were cautious, but gradually grew in confidence as they realized that no one was going to stop them from leaving.

The last to leave the room, Daphne stood in front of Mikhail, and placed her hand on his forearm. She felt the burn of grateful tears as she gazed up at him.

His expression remained impassive. “It’s not over yet.”

“I know,” she replied. “But even this is a gift.”

Before he could answer, another explosion rattled the building—the sound of airships engaged in furious combat. He was right: many more obstacles lay ahead. No time for sighs of relief.

Together, she and Mikhail ran from the chamber and back into battle.

M
IKHAIL NEVER ALLOWED
himself a sense of triumph until the final shot had been fired. He’d seen too many victories unexpectedly collapse.

As Daphne, her parents, and their assistants kept pace behind him, running through the corridors of al-Rahim’s palace, Mikhail kept vigilant, his thoughts and body focused on combat. He’d felt a stirring of happiness seeing Daphne’s joy at being reunited with her parents, but he’d ruthlessly suppressed it. Complacency would get them all killed. And to see her have what he never could only roused his own longing. There’d be no tearful reunions with his family.

Guards charged at them from behind columns and doorways. But he beat them back without mercy. And when any of al-Rahim’s men aimed guns in their direction, Mikhail dropped them with single blasts from his ether pistol.

He glanced back to see Daphne shepherding the freed captives. While some of them, including her parents, looked utterly terrified by all the violence and anarchy around them, her expression was determined, focused. Betraying not a hint of fear. Only fortitude.

Goddamn it, but she made him proud.

As he ran, he saw al-Zaman’s body lying on the ground.

“He wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about our plans to free my parents,” Daphne said.

Mikhail smiled grimly to himself. His
professorsha
was as fierce in battle as she was with her wits.

With Mikhail in the lead, they burst out of al-Rahim’s palace to spectacles of pure bedlam. Fighting warriors filled every open space, some on horseback, some on foot, and even a daring gyrocopter pilot zooming down to take on an enemy armed with a Gatling gun. All of this chaos lay between them and the jolly boat. Mikhail was just glad that the boat was still there.

Looking up, he saw the
Bielyi Voron
bravely holding its own against the two enemy airships. The sky was filled with gray smoke, as though made of steel. Yet the
Bielyi Voron
didn’t seem to have sustained much damage. Levkov might be a stubborn and opinionated bastard, but he was a damned genius when it came to commanding a ship in combat.

“Everyone to the boat!” Mikhail roared to his charges.

Again, he served as the lead, carving a path through the madness to reach the vessel. He knocked aside attacking enemies without breaking stride.

“Mikhail!” Daphne nodded toward one side of the open yard.

He didn’t slow his pace, but still admired the sight. Khalida fought against a bearded man with a scar across one eye. Not only did the man have sumptuous robes, but he held two elaborately ornamented scimitars, one in each hand, and used them like a whirlwind against Khalida, who also held two swords. Though Mikhail had never actually clapped eyes on the man, he recognized him at once: al-Rahim.

The two warlords battled each other on foot, rage blazing the air between them. Though Mikhail had seen more than his share of armed combat, he’d never seen two people fight each other with such hatred, both of them baring their teeth as they struck steel against steel.

“Should we help her?” Daphne asked. “Wouldn’t mind having a go at him myself.”

“It’s their battle,” he answered, though part of him wanted to gut al-Rahim from throat to belly simply for putting Daphne and her family through such hell.

While she looked a bit disappointed that she couldn’t join the fight against al-Rahim, she hurried on, and helped her parents and their assistants into the jolly boat. Mikhail leapt in, threw Daphne his ether rifle, and took the tiller. Once everyone had been secured, he brought the vessel straight up into the air. Yelps of astonishment rose up from the Carlisles and their assistants, but he kept his focus on dodging enemy gunfire and making sure that Daphne was unharmed. Using his ether rifle, she continued to shoot back at anyone who dared fire on them.